Sticking Needles
by dizzydragon
Summary: Draco becomes a Double Agent Squared, but playing both sides isn't easy. Hermione isn’t convinced and the matter of the Horcruxes isn’t helping. Sometimes people forgive but never forget. Sometimes people keep their promises and sometimes hope to die.DMHG
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

**a/n****: Wow. It has a plot. That's absolutely amazing, really. Yuppers.**

**Summary: Draco Malfoy becomes a Double Agent Squared. Playing both sides (doubly) isn't as easy as it seems. Hermione Granger isn't convinced and the matter of the Horcruxes isn't helping, either. Because they aren't much more than children…and they're only two little microscopic dots on the map, aren't they?**

**Sometimes people need to forgive (but never forget). Sometimes people keep their promises and cross their hearts (but never hope to die).**

**When Harry sends them on a quest to find one of the missing Horcruxes to test Draco's loyalty, they'll need all of Draco's guile and Hermione's wit, Draco's dubious charm and Hermione's overenthusiastic sense of justice to help them seek, aim, and destroy it… DMHG**

1.1.1.1.

Do you remember when you first uttered that word? That word with meaning equivalent to 'nigger' or 'faggot' or even 'retard'? Do you remember that word…go on, it's only two syllables, say it…_Mud. Blood._ Mudblood. Remember? You were only trying it out, rolling the letters on your tongue like a piece of chocolate (same color as her eyes) and wondering if it would make you seem bigger.

Do you remember when your palm made contact with pale, pale, aristocratic skin? Because you were standing up for the downtrodden, for those who couldn't quite protect themselves—do you remember the sound it made? Dull smack, not much different than the sound a fish made as it was flung onto the wooden cutting board. Remember the red imprint it left behind? Remember its livid color (angry as his eyes), and the way it made you feel so much smaller?

He remembers watching her descend on the arms of a hulking, ugly, but _famous_ Quidditch star. She remembers smirking down at him because look, look, _she_ can be pretty too. He remembers seeing her run from the beautiful/ugly tattoo that marred the evening sky, and she remembers his taunts that evening as he beratedher two best friends' stupidity for staying there in the open field without cover.

Do you remember that day you stumbled into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and heard his sobs and saw his heaving shoulders and his broken whispers and then left without telling anybody what had happened (because even he deserved that)? Do you remember the day you walked in, again, and saw him retching over the toilet because he needed to be light to fly and dinner had been too good last night? Do you remember watching him look up at you with bile still running down the corners of his mouth, features screwed up in pain, and your hurried retreat, and your renewed hatred of Quidditch (because no one deserved to have to do that, not even him)?

She remembers beaming because Professor Slughorn, a Slytherin, had invited her, _her_, a Mudblood, to one of his parties. He remembers that feeling of inadequacy because he wasn't considered for one of the invitations, and he was pureblood, and he was a Malfoy. He remembers accepting his task and his mark with the pride of a young (so young) boy who wants to be bigger. She remembers thinking how young (so young) she was because she didn't truly believe that a boy who still called her names could be a killer.

1.1.1.1.

The man rocked back and forth in front of the grave, weeping inconsolably. These were the great, gulping sobs of a child, not those of a grown man, and the man tried to muffle them unnecessarily. His only witnesses were an owl and a few bugs crawling to and fro along the grass, and who were they going to tell?

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" the man whispered hoarsely, sometimes muddling the words up so that they were simply, "Sorry, sorry, sorry" or "I…sorry…I'm…sorry, sorry, I, sorry…" The owl wondered what this man with shiny, lank dark hair like the oily feathers of a crow was apologizing for. Owls never felt the need to shed water from their eyes like this man, and owls never needed to apologize.

The man's features screwed up with hatred and loathing so fierce that even the implacable owl was frightened. The crow-man clawed at his hair and at his robes and at his face, as if trying to scrape himself out of existence. "I'm sorry." The man sobbed again. "I'm so sorry."

The owl hooted once, abruptly flying off into the night as another figure slowly made its way down. Surrounded by his grief, the man didn't noticethe figure until itwas only ten meters away, and by then it was too late. There was no chance to flee or to slink away into the shadows.

"Minerva." The words were almost forced out of the man's throat as he bowed his head in defeat, so unused to muttering anything but 'sorry' for so long. "I should have expected that you wouldn't leave Albus's grave alone for long."

The woman's hard features softened, just the tiniest bit, as she saw the tears on the man's face. "Severus."

And again, wearily, the man uttered the word. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you here, Severus?" The woman tried to snap, tried to sound threatening, but the words came out in nothing but a tired, tired murmur. Because God, but she was so tired of it all.

Gone wasthe man'sdefensive sarcasm, his snide remarks, his sneer. "Unbreakable vow." He closed his eyes. "Narcissa and Bellatrix, for Draco…couldn't…hate myself, and the Potter brat has probably convinced you that I enjoyed….it. God, Minerva." He seemed to be holding back another round of gulps, and straightened up in what he hoped was a non-threatening stance. "I tried to make it painless," in a small voice.

The stern-faced woman abruptly turned around, remembering. But remembering what? Severus's professed loyalty, the grudging trust? "If Albus believed you, than so must I. You will tell me everything, no holds barred, and I know that I'm not him but…but I can try."

There was a pause, and the crawling night creatures continued with their business as the man muttered, "…Thank you, Minerva."

The woman wheeled back on him. "So tell me. Tell me, and make me believe you. Tell me what you told Albus, and remember that I do not possess his forgiving nature."

And so the man told her. He gave her everything in his soul, and even the most bitter of enemies had to believe the emotion shaking in his voice, and his fragile grasp on sanity, and his journey on the road to redemption that had started so many, many years ago. By the end, neither of them possessed steady voices.

Minerva offered her hand to her one-time colleague, and one-time friend. "Harry is firmly convinced of your guilt and nothing will ever, ever change that, you know."

"I know. I wouldn't expect anything else—his views are entirely too black and white. Just like his _father_."

"And you are not to continue with your old game of intrigue. Under no circumstances are you to do that, do you hear me? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is already fully aware of your status as a double agent—I wouldn't doubt it if he set...it...up especially to torment you. Our loss of information will be regrettable, yes, but—"

"No."

The older woman gave him a look of incredulity. "I beg your pardon? Surely you cannot be thinking of reentering that…that—"

For the first time in possibly decades, a smile graced the pale face of the man. Granted, it was a rather wolfish, triumphant, vengeful smile, but a smile nonetheless. "No. You will not suffer from lack of information."

"And who, may I ask, is to be the informant?"

"Draco Malfoy, of course."

1.1.1.1.

Six identical gasps of horror emerged from bushes far enough away that the various noises that were emitted when a large group of people were together were muffled, and close enough that Extendable Ears could still reach. The group was overrun by redheads, as over half the family had decided to accompany Harry Potter as he went to spy on Professor McGonagall.

It had originally started out as a team comprised of exactly one person—Harry. It had expanded to include Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley when they complained about his inability to trust them, and expanded yet again when Ginny Weasley refused to release them from her Bat-bogey Hex until she was allowed to accompany her brother and best girl friend and sort-of-ex-boyfriend too. Fred and George Weasley had denied them access to any Extendable Ears until they heard what their product was going to be used for, and then had only given them the Extendable Ears once they were allowed to tag along as well.

Harry was beginning to give up on the whole 'alone' thing.

On the bright side, he reflected, it was one more thing to separate him from Voldemort.

"Did you hear? Did you _hear?_" Hermione hissed to the five others squashed behind a large bush that, in hindsight, wasn't quite as large as it had seemed when unoccupied by the bodies of six growing teenagers.

"Yes, Hermione, we all heard." Ron hissed back. "But now we know why Dumbledore trusted Snape. Blimey," he added softly. "It's just…"

"We never knew." Ginny whispered.

Harry hadn't said anything throughout the whole exchange between Snape and McGonagall, although the conversation had been peppered with add-ins and comments from almost everybody else, Fred and George in particular. Hermione regarded him with worry, wondering how he was taking it.

She hoped he wouldn't fly off into another rage. It was all very well to express your emotions, but Harry seemed to possess a remarkable talent for expressing them at exactly the wrong time for exactly the wrong reasons.

Still. Perhaps Ginny would be able to handle him. Goodness knows, Hermione was getting rather sick of it all. Conflicts. Fights. Just one time, just _for once_ she wished her friends would sometimes use the logic she knew was buried somewhere in their heads. "But…Professor Snape's considering using _Malfoy_ for spying purposes. That…that low-life, cowardly, house-elf-abusing, spoiled, spineless…_Malfoy_." She spluttered.

Harry spoke for the first time. "Maybe Snape'll just use that spinelessness to bully him into turning double-agent on Voldemort." Wryly.

"I can see it now." Fred sighed dreamily. "Malfoy quivering in a little pale ball, pissing his pants because he's so scared and yes, yes, he'll do anything as long as Snape won't hurt him…"

Ron snickered. "Miniature Wormtail in the flesh."

"Hey, the only way to get bullies to obey you is bullying them." George shrugged comfortably, before eyeing Hermione with a tint of unease. "What?"

"Even bullies have feelings too." _Just...maybe not Malfoy. But other bullies did. _She sniffed, before quickly grabbing Harry's shirt as he lunged out of the bushes. "_What are you doing?_"

"Going to tell them I was listening." Her best friend struggled, eyeglasses crooked. "Going to tell Snape I believe him and that I…that I…I don't know, but they should know that I know about Snape now because it could be crucial in the future. And…it's the right thing to do." He finished lamely.

Hermione was torn between her sense of honor and her sense of self-preservation and just plain sense. "Do you honestly think that Snape will be pleased to know that you, son of his self-professed enemy, have now heard his deepest, darkest secrets?" she finally settled for saying.

"No." Harry looked at her, green eyes softening. "But I'm not his enemy anymore. We've got Voldemort to think about, all five remaining pieces of him." And he strode out to the grassy knoll as Hermione's hands dropped lifeless to her side.

"Don't worry, Hermione." Ron rubbed her back. "You tried to stop him. Idiot," he added for good measure.

She blushed unaccountably, but quickly flicked a tentative smile at her friends, half-joking and half-serious. "You know…I think Harry must've grown up somewhere between two weeks ago and now."

Ginny patted her hand. "It's better."

"I know. It's just that I sometimes miss the boy with broken, cellotaped glasses who thought that there wasn't any difference between Draco Malfoy and all the other bullies out there."

"I had dirt on my nose." Ron offered, a faint undercurrent of jealousy marring his words.

"Yes, you did. As a matter of fact, you have some right between your eyebrows now." George said matter-of-factly.

Hermione stared after Harry as Ron struggled to get Fred and George off of him. Without Dumbledore, who would Harry turn to? And as she watched Snape and Harry regard each other in a sort of stalemate, she wondered if maybe...maybe it could be Snape. Maybe Snape would look at Harry with clearer vision, and maybe he'd learn from his mistake with Malfoy.

What was Malfoy doing now?

1.1.1.1.

_She remembers a boy who retched out his meals, retched out his soul into a mildewing toilet simply because he wanted to fly. He remembers a girl who thought that books had all the answers in the world and was so disappointed when she found out that life's mysteries didn't lie ensconced in the pages of a dusty tome._

_Do you remember?_

1.1.1.1.

To be continued…

Hoped you liked…please review!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: First of all, Chapter One has gone through a few (a very few) changes. It's not really necessary to re-read it, but it flows a bit smoother and a few bits have been added in. Not many bits, but still. Just…yeah. Anyway, here's the next installment of the story…and I have no clue where the hell it's going. **

**Second of all…there is no second of all. I'm just a buttmunch who can't think right now, or converse properly with a blank screen. **

1.1.1.1.

_There was no noble cause for the beginning of actions that would spark yet another whole chain of events. It was simply that Severus Snape was very young, and very afraid, and had loved Lily Evans like a sister. So perhaps it was really only about vengeance. For isn't that actually how all tales of grandeur and high adventure and nobility (of blood or of heart is the only question) start? With a thirst for revenge; a search for something beyond the mundane 'We're sorry's'._

_So it wasn't truly about love, or about honor; not really. It wasn't about the angels and devils on your shoulder and wondering how many could dance on the head of a pin. It was about one man's need for someone to say that he still had a chance, and _that_ would be his retribution._

_And one man, a great wizard with kind eyes and a fondness for things not so great, had understood this better than anyone else._

1.1.1.1.

_He'll kill me._

Three little words. They didn't produce quite as earth-shattering a revelation as when the three little words 'I love you' were spoken, but they were earth-shattering nonetheless. Those words marked the moment Draco Malfoy had realized that the Dark Lord was not, in fact, simply a very old man with red eyes and white skin and insane laughter and a magic stick which could be the source of much pain, but a Very Bad Man indeed.

Draco Malfoy didn't want to die. He didn't want his mother to die. He didn't want his father to die. He didn't want Snape to die. He didn't want Pansy to die. He didn't want Crabbe or Goyle Jr. to die. He didn't want anybody to die, really.

…Actually, he wouldn't really mind if Granger or Weasley (any of them) died, but not at his hands.

But…maybe not Potter.

And he was torn. If the Dark Lord won, Draco would certainly not complain. As a Death Eater, he'd most probably be treated to a nice life as a very favored lapdog, pampered and taken care of for the rest of his days—providing he was alive and whole and hadn't gotten on the Dark Lord's nerves by that time.

On the other hand…Draco wouldn't trivialize the Dark Lord with black humor. It was just that Draco didn't like pain. He didn't like the way he was forced to watch the other, seasoned Death Eaters torture and kill and laugh while they did it. He didn't like the way the Dark Lord punished those who made the slightest mistake.

Draco had made mistakes. One of them was not killing Dumbledore with his own hands.

_It could have been mine!_ He wanted to scream, to wail like a little boy throwing a tantrum. _That was my kill!_ But Snape had stepped in the second Draco had shown the slightest waver. (A gust of wind startled me, he had pleaded. It wasn't my fault.) (Men of the Service aren't startled. _Crucio_.)

And if Potter won, maybe Draco could…somehow…free himself from the Dark Lord's grip (because it was scary, these phantom claws digging into Draco's flesh, knowing that he had no choice, knowing that if the Dark Lord told him to kill himself he had to do it).

And where was Snape now? Where was the bastard? He had disappeared after dropping Draco off at the Malfoy Mansion, muttering something mysterious about 'Death Eater business'. Well, bullshit.

Narcissa had believed him.

_Bullshit._

Draco looked down at the quivering body in front of him as the small Muggle cottage burned in the background. "_Crucio_"

The Muggle's screams were cruelly accompanied by various shrieks of laughter from Draco's aunt, and as the man raised teary gray eyes to Draco's own, he saw his own reflection in the orbs and involuntarily took a step back.

Draco had gray eyes, too.

_"Avada Kedavra."_

The man collapsed.

_You aren't a killer, Draco._

_Bullshit._

Well, guess what, old man? You were wrong.

1.1.1.1.

"No! Zese are not ze right flowers…I asked for ze roses, not ze, how do you say, chrysanthemums!"

Bill and Fleur had decided to marry each other on the campus of Hogwarts, although Fleur had at first pouted and protested until she saw exactly how beautiful the area was—far more so than the huge, drafty, pompous church she had originally decided on.

"Eet is an all-natural wedding," she had exclaimed happily. "We will 'ave beautiful flowers and simplicity, and I seenk Bill will be more com-for-table out here zen in zat _church._" She spat, conveniently forgetting that it had been she who had chosen that _church_ as their wedding place. "Don't you seenk so, Bill?" She complacently asked her fiancée, who shrugged, still a little self-conscious about his appearance and wondering that Fleur still wanted to marry him.

"Anywhere is fine, as long as we are married."

"_Ah_, he is so sweet." Fleur had turned, beaming, to her audience of Ginny and Hermione, before demanding a confirmation. "Isn't he sweet?"

"He _is_ my brother." Ginny had replied far too demurely to be earnest.

For now, though, Hermione was concentrating on stopping Fleur's infamous temper from unleashing itself upon the poor delivery-boy who, hypnotized by Fleur's eerie beauty, hadn't quite heard her orders properly.

"S-sorry, ma'am, so sorry…" the boy stuttered.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Fleur." Hermione stepped in, carefully pulling Fleur back and whispering into her ear until the woman's hair stopped flying about like rather scary imitations of Medusa's snakes and the unearthly glow in her eyes dissipated. "He's only a boy…and probably half in love with you, if the glazed look is any indication of his rather foggy mind."

"Yes." Fleur finally sighed after an inner struggle, running a hand down her dress with a faintly smug look in her eye. "Zese Veela powers are such a burden sometimes."

"Burden my freckled arse." Ginny muttered in Hermione's ear once Fleur had happily skipped away. "Look at her. She's positively thrilled that she can bring so many males to her feet at a single glance. Sometimes I wonder if Bill's making the right choice…"

Hermione said as calmly as possible, "She's going to marry your brother, Gin. He loves her, and you know that she loves him. She's just a bit…flirtatious."

"Even Ron is following his soon-to-be sister-in-law with ga-ga eyes." Ginny said in disgust. "It's absolutely revolting."

Hermione gave an involuntary wince, remembering one of the many reasons why she so disliked Fleur. "She can't help it, Ginny. It's the Veela blood in her—why, I read somewhere that Veelas have no more control over their allure than males have over their momentary attraction when—"

Ginny gave her a wry glance. "Try applying that theory to Ron and _then _come tell me what you think about Fleur's so called helplessness in the face of all her magical appeal." She motioned to the mentioned male, and both girls caught sight of the gangly boy carrying a mountain of decorations and positively swooning after Fleur in the process.

_He's like a bleeding _girl.

Fuming, Hermione followed Ginny all the way back outside.

It was a mere two days until the wedding, and Hermione fervently hoped that the fateful day would arrive soon. Two more days until Fleur and Bill left for their honeymoon and she didn't have to hear any more melodious laughter or see any more swishing silver hair or smell any more of Fleur's not-so-awful perfume. Two more days until Ron would realize that Fleur was _off limits_ unless he cared to indulge in some sort of traitorous, soap opera style affair that Fleur probably wasn't even interested in participating in.

Ginny patted Hermione's shoulder in sympathy. "I know how you feel."

"Speak for yourself." She retorted gloomily. "Harry isn't near as affected by the glamour as Ron is."

"Well," bracingly, "maybe if we flung some sort of sheet over Fleur whenever she comes near, her Veela powers will be severely diminished? You're also the smartest witch in the entire school, Hermione. Surely you can invent some sort of anti-Fleur charm? Fleur-be-gone? You could win galleons and galleons and enough prizes to fill an entire vault!"

Hermione snickered, before saying mock-ominously, "It might take all the power of a potion to do that, Ginny. A measly charm might not be enough…"

Their laughter echoed all the way down the hall, and Fleur stopped in annoyance when she heard it. "Zese girls will not learn when to be serious," she sniffed haughtily, before a small smile surfaced and she murmured softly to herself, "But eet is better that for now they are not, yes?"

1.1.1.1.

Ten minutes later, in another secure room in the large castle, a conversation on a much more serious note was taking place.

So to speak.

"Potter." Snape muttered at Harry, inclining his head at a slight angle.

Harry tilted his head back and grinned cheekily up at the former professor. "Snape. I thought that the greasy hair was only mandatory when keeping up with your sour reputation, Professor—surely you have no need to leave your luscious locks unkempt and unwashed when in the company of _us_…we're all friends here, aren't we, Professor?"

"You mock me with that title, _boy_."

"Well, seeing as how we're on a _much_ friendlier tone, let's say we talk about hair products and how exactly you manage to perfect that Greasy Bastard look. I happen to use—"

"Harry." Hermione decided that now was the opportune moment to step in before both of the egotistic males did something really drastic. "That's enough."

"Ah. Miss Granger." Snape's mouth curved up in an unpleasant sneer of disgust. "Shall I expect the company of the third member of your _ménage a trois_ soon?"

"Right here, Snape." Ron replied cheerfully, slinking through the doorway with a grace unusual with his impressive height. "And never knew you had such a dirty little mind. Setting a very bad example for the children, ain't you?"

Snape's lip curled even more unpleasantly as he said silkily, "I doubt that all of you are here simply to gift me with your holy presence. May I ask what it is that you require?"

Harry abruptly sobered. "We are here to discuss your current position." He said, dangerously calm, and Hermione quickly sent a concerned look his way. "Do you have anything of use—information, artifacts…? I know that McGonagall is convinced that your state of mind is entirely too fragile to undergo an interrogation, but believe me, I have no qualms about interrogating you or using this." He held up a small vial of Veritaserum without ceremony, and Hermione let out a gasp. Snape simply raised an eyebrow, looking mildly impressed in spite of himself.

"I see you made a small trip through my private cabinets. Do you know how to properly administer that potion to someone without permanently destroying them? "

"You didn't seem too concerned about the results when you handed over a bottle to Umbridge."

"Harry, that's illegal!" Hermione whispered, weakly trying to take the flask out of Harry's grip. "Do you want to be arrested? Expelled?"

"Well, now there isn't anywhere to be expelled from, thanks to _him_, is there?" Harry retorted nastily, never moving his gaze from Snape's.

"Harry!" Hermione barked sharply again, steering her friend away as Ron carefully watched Snape's suddenly pained expression. "That's too far, and you know it."

"Too far? Nothing's too far anymore, Hermione. Yes, we heard his story and yes, I believe him but there are still questions to be answered." A slight shove, and Harry was again free, stalking up to Snape with a single-mindedness that…scared her a little.

And yes, sometimes she did miss the boy-Harry, or even the boy-man Harry. Because she didn't like this new man-Harry, even if it was supposed to be good for people to grow up. The hero always grew up at the end of the book; the difference was that he was happy, and he was whole, and he was _better_ than he was before. But man-Harry wasn't…he wasn't exactly better. Nor was he worse. But he was different.

Man-Harry wasn't the boy-Harry that Hermione loved like a brother.

Ron moved to the side, casting Hermione a worried look. She shook her head at him, mouthing 'Ginny', and hoped that Harry wouldn't notice as Ron left the room. As it was, Harry was too busy measuring out precisely the right amounts of the serum into a bottlecap while Snape looked imperiously on.

He didn't display the slightest sign of fear, and Hermione wondered if maybe…maybe he had already told them everything. Just maybe Snape didn't have anything left to hide.

_Everyone has secrets_.

Not anymore.

1.1.1.1.

As it was, either Harry didn't ask the right questions before Ginny stormed in, or Snape was being honest when he said that he didn't have anything that could be of use to them that they didn't already know—or that other members of the Order didn't already know. And so they returned to wedding preparations with disgruntled sighs as Hermione tossed the vial of Veritaserum into the lake and regarded Harry with fire in her eyes, turning around and walking away without looking back.

"Harry…"

"Just…leave it, Ginny. Just leave it."

"You're being stupid."

And then she walked away as well.

Harry could have asked what was wrong with him that the two most important girls (women?) in his life felt the sudden urge to walk away and leave him staring incredulously after them. _Twice_ in less than one minute. Insane. Everybody was _insane_. So Snape had his story, and it was tested under Veritaserum and he was telling the truth. But what if he'd _changed_ since then, huh? What if he'd _changed?_

Seventeen-year-old Snape—a rather scary thought—hadn't been that bad a bloke, considering. But what about thirty-something-year-old Snape? It had been a long time. Twenty years was a very long time.

_Twenty years was a very long time._

Severus Snape watched Harry Potter kick at something by the lake and hop around, holding his foot in agony. It was a strange sensation, watching something happen but unable to hear it. Television on mute. He'd never liked the muggle device, anyway. Entertainment for those with little to no imagination. He scoffed, and sat back down on his bed.

They didn't trust him all that much.

Like he'd given them any reason to.

And he rolled up his sleeve, tracing his finger delicately along the tightly wound bandages that encased his left forearm.

_It was night. Odd how these things were always done under the cover of night, as if the bright sunlight of day might be tainted if something awful was done then. Had anyone ever seen someone crying, weeping in the open, while the sky was blue and the sun shone on green grass and trees and the breeze rustled through flowers and held singing birds aloft? No. Crying was reserved solely for cloudy days and lonely nights and cold dungeon chambers._

_It is a still, humid night. The sort of night where the minutest sound is heard (yet curiously muffled) because of the lack of moving air. The glint of sharp metal pressed against pale flesh with a quivering hand. Grinning black skull. Hideous/Beautiful. There is a terrifying artisan's touch to the tattoo. _

_In goes the blade._

_Red is the blood._

_Black and white and red and silver blend together as the man hacks and hacks and hacks around the mark that scars him for eternity. _Out. Out. Get out. Out. Get out._ With his muffled scream of pain, the mounds of flesh fall to the stone floor and he collapses against the walls, shaking and somehow managing to find his wand despite the agonizing pain._

Evanesco.

_Fires lick around the grotesque wound, burning the flesh and stopping the blood. _Out. Get out._ Hastily summoning bandages to wrap around his arm and he can't move his fingers but is it out? Is it gone? _

_The tattoo lies shredded to pieces on the floor and he suppresses the urge to vomit. Let it be gone. Please, it has to be gone. The bloody pieces fall to dust and he sighs wearily, looking at the massive gouge in his arm and realizing that he may never use the arm again. Too many nerves destroyed and burned and cut out. _

_But the tattoo goes deeper than that. He knows that within his arm, where he cannot reach, there is still a spark of dark magic. He doesn't have much time before the tattoo will return again, with more pain than ever. He's running out of time._

_It's out for now. But not gone. Never gone. _

Severus Snape felt the wound through the bandages and noted with despair that the flesh was healing. And once it was healed the tattoo would return. From time to time he felt a weak pain in his arm, a weak summons, but it wasn't strong enough yet. He'd have to resort to more drastic measures if he wished to be physically freed from the Dark Lord. Psychologically would be harder for the Dark Lord was a skilled Legilimens.

Severus would have to be a better one.

Emotionally freed…never.

_Look, Potter…you may not believe me now but you'll have to. You'll have to._

The whole of the fucking world rests in your hands. No pressure or anything. You just need to defeat the Big Bad, find true love, go through emotional turmoil, get physically injured at one point or another, and then go through the rest of your miserable life constantly bombarded by paparazzi and stalkers before ending up on a measly half-page spread article when you're sixty years old and nobody cares anymore.

Snape wasn't cynical. He was brutally honest.

1.1.1.1.

Rarely do weddings go without a hitch.

Fleur's _was_ an exception.

Was there anything Fleur couldn't do better? Hermione wondered, just a bit sadly, as she watched Fleur proceed down the aisle towards an obviously ecstatic Bill. Because…Fleur was so _beautiful._ And she was charming, and she knew exactly the right things to say all the time. She never let a word escape from her mouth that wasn't carefully contrived to exact specific emotions in the person she was conversing with. And she had such a nice laugh—Bill wouldn't ever get sick of that laugh. Soft and high and gentle and knowing.

Hermione had a different laugh. Her laugh…well, it was sort of loud when she got carried away. And then she couldn't stop, and when she laughed she tended to snort and wheeze a little.

_But you're smarter, right?_ She asked herself. No, she wasn't. Maybe book-smart. But book-smart didn't tide you over after you left school. What about real-life-smart? She wasn't real-life-smart, because a real-life-smart person wouldn't be in love with her best friend and wouldn't have a walking target as her other best friend and wouldn't spend nights suffering like an insomniac, dwelling on all her imperfections of body and character.

She didn't really have a chance, surrounded by all these beauties with additional strength of character.

See Ginny? Fleur was a classic beauty, and Ginny was the…the loud, bright beauty with her red hair and blue eyes and long, slender limbs. She was witty (Hermione was only…smart). She had _presence_. She couldn't be ignored, ever, because she seemed to draw people around her like bees to their queen, and it wasn't because of Veela blood. And she was quick-tempered (but that made her more alluring), and she was outgoing (and people always liked outgoing people), and she had a loud, hearty, flirty laugh that was somehow intimate (not like Hermione's laugh, that made people sort of give her odd looks).

And then there was Lavender Brown, or Parvati Patil, or Padma Patil. Everybody knew the type. Giggly, flighty, sort of shallow. But goddesses when it came to gossip or fashion or beauty. They knew _everything_. They were the ones who somehow found out secrets because people felt the strangest urges to tell them despite their reputations for being the literal grapevines of the school. Maybe they were shallow, but no one seemed to mind, because they were _interesting_ while being shallow. Hermione could easily talk about clothes and boys and gossip with them—yes, even enjoy it—but…it wasn't so fun when you didn't know all the gossip and when there were ugly gaps during which you could never get a word in edgewise because the others were far too close and you were only the afterthought.

She was an odd sort of mixture of a person, Hermione was.

Helping Fleur prepare for the wedding had brought about a whole new slew of insecurities, it seemed. Frowning to herself, Hermione mentally batted them away and concentrated on Fleur's radiant face and the love that so obviously emanated from it. In front of her, Mrs. Weasley sobbed openly into her handkerchief—the only indication that they were happy sobs was the older woman's huge smile.

Ron turned around and caught Hermione's eye.

And for once…for once her breath didn't hitch in her throat and the telltale blush didn't creep up and the butterflies…why, even the butterflies were gone.

He smiled at her. It was an adorably silly, sweet, completely Ron-ish smile that should have had Hermione flying without wings. It only evoked a sisterly (a _sisterly_, a little part of her cried out) urge to cuddle him. _Cuddle him_. Instead of wanting to jump up to the podium and smash a ring onto Ron's left ring finger and snog him and do all sorts of other unspeakable things with him, it made Hermione want to _cuddle_ him.

What was wrong with her?

Ron must have seen something in her face because he frowned, opened his mouth, but returned to the celebrations when his mother jabbed her elbow into his side.

"Hermione?" Harry looked at her in concern, carefully keeping his voice down and wincing when Lupin sent a reproving glance his way. "What's wrong?"

Was she that obvious?

She shook her head sternly, emphatically looking at Fleur and Bill and the reverend and nothing else. Besides, she still wasn't speaking to him.

Harry shrugged and smiled as Fleur Delacour became Fleur Delacour-Weasley and Bill was officially joined the love of his life.

"You may now kiss the—Oh, my."

Fleur had barged in for a full make-out session before the poor man had even pronounced the sentence, and oblivious to the hoots and cheers, the newlywed couple stayed wrapped in each other's arms for another two minutes.

"I suppose I'll have to get along with her from now on." Ginny dolefully approached Hermione, who instantly felt guilty for her jealous thoughts of earlier. The younger girl began to cheer up. "But I suppose it won't be too hard. She began to grow on me after she hexed Fred and George for using the Extendable Ears to listen in on Bill and her while they were…ahem. Enjoying the luxuries of their bed. Room."

Hermione laughed. She laughed and laughed far harder than the weak joke warranted because there was a bit of her that believed that everything would be okay. The sun shone gaily as puffy white clouds drifted in the bright blue sky, and Fleur was throwing her elaborate bouquet in the air and Professor McGonagall had caught it and was blushing as nobody had ever seen the staid professor blush before.

Hermione sort of wanted to freeze time. Just freeze time, just for that moment, and stay in that moment so that Harry wouldn't have to go out and face Voldemort and Ron and Hermione could, in another world and another time, have something and so that nobody else would _die._

How many faces would be gone from the tableau come the next few years?

"Hermione…" Ron's voice said, and she turned around in surprise, making him shuffle his feet in embarrassment. "D'you…d'you want to…oh, bugger it, Hermione…Want to dance?"

She saw the next ten years in front of her. They'd dance at the wedding, and then they'd help Harry defeat Voldemort (they're the sidekicks. And one of the sidekicks always gets the hero, but if they don't, they get each other and that's the fact), and then they'd go back to a hero's welcome and they'd kiss and they'd marry and soon she'd have bouncing babies on each knee.

"Sorry, Ron." Hermione whispered. "I'm a bit tired now. Maybe another time."

"Oh. All right, then." He turned red to match his hair and aimlessly meandered towards the food. "See you, 'Mione."

Another time, another world; maybe. But the hero had his beautiful, bright princess-in-disguise, and the sidekicks had only each other. And what if they weren't _right_ for each other, even though it was the most logical solution? What then? There weren't other love interests running around that they could leap into the arms of. And just because there wasn't anyone else didn't mean they had to leap into _their_ arms. They didn't have to repopulate the world or anything, for Christ's sake.

"Miss Granger." She turned to see Snape regarding her out of dark, hollow eyes. "Are you quite all right?" He said it stiffly, as if unaccustomed to asking such a personal question.

She tried a tentative smile. It died on her face. …Good grief, but there was just something so very _wrong_ about smiling at Snape. She didn't understand how Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall had managed to do it at all. "I'm all right, Professor. I'll be all right."

1.1.1.1.

_That one man had understood the boy's thirst for redemption and revenge (both at the same time) better than anyone and had offered him both. So when the boy (for he was still a boy, if a bigger, older boy) shouted out the words, those words that were a cruel mockery of the age-old 'Abra Kedabra', it was as if he had killed off that chance for redemption (and what a cold word that was). His need for someone to reach out that hand grew stronger, and his only chance for that hand was burned to cinders, surrounded by green flame. _

_So what would happen then?_

_Abra__ Kedabra; pull a white rabbit out of a seemingly empty black hat._

_Watch them clap, and then wonder why you can't pull doves out, instead._

1.1.1.1.

**A/N: Meh. Didn't like this. In fact, rather dislike this story already and am waiting for it to grow on me…hopefully, it will. Sorry about the craptastic writing.**

**Thank you to: Artic Demon** (gah, I love your reviews…there's just something so…descriptive about them? I don't know. But they never fail to make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside because you see more into my stories than even I do. Muah. And…just thank you. I'm glad you caught that line…tis one of those special lines that I loved writing, lol. Thanks so much!) **Clever witch** (Thank you!) **trieste** (aaw, thank you…it was weird. I just thought that Seekers are supposed to be all light and small, right? So, like most athletes, wouldn't they be under pressure to be that way? I don't know. It made sense to me, lol…and yes. Snape is ucky here. But I'm hoping to develop him a leetle further…thank you so much for reviewing!) **Artemis** (Thank you so much!)

**By the way, lurkers are…rated amongst the more dishonest people. So if you've managed to read this through, please leave a little note? Just a few of your thoughts. If you're indifferent (and why). If you like it (and why). If you loathe it with every scrap of your being (and why). Please? Reviews mean a lot to me.**

**So…please review?**


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